Over the Hills and Far Away
by E350
Summary: It has been three years since Wirt and Greg returned from the Unknown, and Wirt has long given up trying to convince people that it really happened. On a family trip to London, however, Wirt is pulled into an epic journey to find an ancient artifact - and to save his brother from an old enemy. Set in the Forever Autumn world. Rated for violence. Possible mentions of Wirt/Beatrice.
1. Prologue

A quick note before we begin - this is set in the same universe as my_ Forever Autumn_ stories, which are based on Gravity Falls. While reading _Forever Autumn_ is not required to understand this story, it is recommended for the best reading experience.

Heh...reading experience...in my stories...that's funny.

Anyway, let's get going!

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_Long, long ago, when the Earth was new, there lived six scribes._

_These scribes lived in a kingdom deep in the desert, a kingdom that relied on a great river to bring life to their crops, to trade their goods and to provide a place to pray to their gods. As long as the river flowed, the kingdom flourished._

_But many springs had passed without flood, and famine gripped the people. Peasants starved to death in the hot sun, and no food could be brought to them on the dry river. No offerings could be made to the heavens, and the people's spirituality suffered. If the floods did not return, the kingdom would die._

_As a result, the King called for brave souls willing to make their way to the source of the river, and find a way to make it flow once more. Warriors and heroes ventured north – none returned, and the drought continued._

_The six scribes had nothing that the soldier or the adventurer did not have in far greater quantities, but they had each other, and they had a grim determination. And as they ventured out of the kingdom and into the unknown, they made unto each other a solemn vow._

_They would fight for their brothers. They would venture far and wide, into every danger and every obstacle, to see their families survive. And if it were necessary, they would happily die for those they loved..._

_- The Tale of the Six Scribes – R.E.R.E. archives, Hereford, Great Britain_

_Alton, northern England. 1745._

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><p>Caruthers Rochford stood in front of the altar, deep in the heart of Alton Cathedral, looking up at the gigantic stained glass image of the Virgin Mary. Outside, the thunderstorm rumbled eerily above, lighting dancing through the clouds and illuminating the glass with bolts of blue and white. The only light, aside from the storm, were the dim candles on the altar, washing Rochford in a warm orange light.<p>

It was a strange kind of peace, standing here. You almost forgot there was a war on.

The dim sound of a series of pops flowed into Rochford's ears – the telltale sound of a musket volley. The regulars on the wall were clearly still holding out, although their time grew shorter with every second. Like the candles on the altar, they would eventually fade into the darkness – and then the Jacobites would march into Alton.

Rochford cared little for the politics of kings and thrones – as far as he was concerned, the Young Pretender and King George could fight it out for a thousand years. He was far more concerned with keeping his treasure out of their hands.

The great doors on the other side of the cathedral flew open. A slightly portly lieutenant, soaked from head to toe but still resplendent in the King's red uniform and powdered wig, marched up the aisle, a tall, brown-haired, slightly scruffy private following. Behind them, the door closed with a mighty bang.

"Mr Rochford, sir!" exclaimed the lieutenant, "They nearly have us surrounded, sir! We have a window of thirty minutes, sir, you must leave!"

Rochford shook his head, turning to face his companions. He adjusted his own wig and coat – might as well look nice for the Jacobites, he supposed.

"I cannot go with you, Lieutenant Woodham," he replied, "I shall be recognised, and that would only prevent your escape."

"Sir, my orders are..."

"Lieutenant Woodham," interrupted Rochford, "I appreciate your concern for my safety, but this is more important. I need you to escort something out of Acton."

"Sir?"

"Follow me," ordered Rochford, "Bring the private."

Rochford walked to the right, to a small wooden door with an iron lock. He heaved open the lock and opened it, walking into a stone, candlelit crypt with a large tomb inside. A bald and elderly priest stood next to hit, head bowed in prayer – a plainly dressed, somewhat mousey woman with shoulder-length black hair stood by him.

"Father Denton," said Rochford, "Ms. Cara – this is Lieutenant Woodham and..."

He trailed off.

"Well, tell him boy!" snapped Woodham, slightly testily.

"Private Marsh, sir," said Marsh.

"Yes, Marsh," nodded Rochford, "These men will be your entourage."

"What are we guarding, sir?" asked Woodham.

"Show him, father," replied Rochford.

"I'll need help," wheezed the old man.

"Marsh," barked Woodham.

Marsh walked over to the crypt, taking hold of one end of the stone lid. The old preacher took the other, with Rochford bringing up the middle. With a mighty heave, they pulled the lid away, revealing the contents of the coffin. Dust filled the air.

"My god," whispered Woodham, "It can't be..."

"It can be, sir," said Cara.

All eyes fell on the Roman imperial eagle that rested inside, surrounded by dust and cobwebs but looking as though it had been fashioned a day earlier. A Roman numeral was displayed under the eagle – IX.

"That is the Eagle of the Ninth Legion," nodded Cara.

"Can't be," scoffed Woodham, "The Ninth disappeared almost two thousand years ago. It's a replica, it has to be..."

"It is the real thing," assured Rochford, "My father found it on a visit to the Highlands back in 1702."

"It can do things, my son," added Denton, "Powerful things."

"Mr. Marsh," asked Rochford, "Demonstrate, if you will. Pick it up."

Marsh picked it out of the tomb. His eyes widened as the Eagle lit up, almost like a lamp – it felt warm in his hands. A strange sound, almost like a barely-audible choir, filled the room.

"Mother o' Mary," he whispered.

After a few seconds, the glowing subsided. The Eagle returned to normal, as if it had never changed at all.

"That Eagle is destined for somebody," said Rochford, "There is a name carved in the hilt. I need you to go into hiding and ensure that neither side of this idiotic war get their hands on it. Avoid London, avoid Edinburgh, find the most remote place you can and stay on guard. Father Denton and his daughter will aid you."

"Sir, you're asking me to desert my..."

"I shall inform the government that you died with honour, should the Jacobites feel the desire to spare me," replied Rochford.

"Sir..."

"As the Mayor, Lieutenant Woodham, I am _ordering _you to take this," snapped Rochford, "It is for the betterment of Great Britain and the world at large."

Woodham swallowed and nodded.

"Mr. Marsh," said Rochford, "You are not specifically required. If so desired, I can replace you with another man..."

"I'll go, sir," replied Marsh, "You can count on me."

Rochford nodded.

"Good man," he said, "You had best be going. It shan't be long before the Pretender's Army arrives."

"Good luck, Mr. Rochford," nodded Cara.

"The same unto you all," replied Rochford, "Off you go."

The three men and woman filed out, heading through the cathedral to the door. Rochford remained behind, heading back to his spot by the altar. He waited until the door had slammed shut once more before kneeling.

"I do not know who he is," he whispered, "Or what his destiny may be. But whatever he is, he will be taking up a great burden. It seems almost unfair to damn him to it."

He looked up at the stained glass.

"But when he comes, I ask only one thing of You," he continued, "Give him the strength to do what he must. Guide him through every trial, and keep watch over him."

He sighed.

"Bring him luck," he finished, "For this 'Wirt' shall need it."

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><p>AN: For the uninitiated in British history, this prologue is set during the Jacobite Rising, during which Charles Stuart (referred to here as the Young Pretender and better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie) tried to reclaim the British throne for his father, James. The conflict has since been romanticised to heck and back. Suffice to say, it was a dirty, nasty war which gave the world nothing but misery and <em>God Save the Queen<em>.

In any case, most of this story takes place in the present. I just thought you'd like some background.


	2. One: London Calling

Not a long chapter, but enough to get a start, I think.

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><p><strong>One: London Calling<strong>

_This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. – William Butler Yeats_

Wirt sat on the hotel bed, bored out of his mind. He held the remote for the small television on the wall in his hands, absently clicking between channels in an attempt to find any kind of stimulation.

_"__...breaking news from the United States at this hour..."_

Click.

_"__...explosion completely destroyed the Northwest mansion..."_

Click.

_"__...no known fatalities at this time. We are aware of..."_

Click.

_"__...Pines and Wendy Corduroy have been taken to hospital with non-critical injuries..."_

Click.

_"__The Governor of Oregon has placed the state on high terror alert until the culprit is..."_

Wirt turned off the television and groaned, falling onto his back and staring at the ceiling fan. He listened to the patter of the rain outside the window.

"And none of that is ever gonna concern me," he muttered.

It had been three years since Wirt and Greg had visited the Unknown – an eventful three years at that. Wirt had grown, graduating high school and moving onto college, which was light-years better then high school. He now had friends, even if his relationship with Sara had never quite gone as far as he might have liked. By all conventional wisdom, he should have been happy.

Except he wasn't really.

The things he and Greg had been through in that other world were not easily forgotten, and yet he had nobody to discuss them with. Who would believe them? Greg had already tried to tell their parents and been laughed off as an overimaginative little boy. His own attempts to talk about it with Sara using vague 'I know a guy' language had simply got him complimented on his story-weaving abilities. The closest he'd ever had to a believer was a man in a black suit who had followed him home one day, and quite frankly Wirt had been too freaked out by his stalking to converse with him.

Wirt sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.

_Come on, you're supposed to be unwinding,_ his brain told him, _you're on vacation._

"No I'm not," Wirt told his brain, ""I'm babysitting Greg while Mom goes to a work conference. Two different things."

The door to the bathroom opened. Wirt's younger brother, Greg, emerged, stretching as he did so. He was wearing a red t-shirt and shorts, little white sneakers protecting his feet. Greg smiled and turned to his brother.

"Hey Wirt," he called, "Are you being grumpy again?"

"What?" replied Wirt, "I'm not being _grumpy_, Greg, I'm _brooding_."

Greg jumped onto the bed, crawling over to his brother. He put his hands on his hips as he scrutinised Wirt's face.

"Nope, definitely looking grumpy to me," he said.

Wirt huffed and crossed his arms.

"Greg, do you think anyone's ever gonna believe us about the Unknown?" he asked, "About the forest? About...any of that stuff?"

"Sure they will," replied Greg brightly, "You just gotta keep trying!"

"Yeah, that sounds like a good way to get into the Loony Bin," grunted Wirt.

"Well, maybe they'll believe us when we get there!" said Greg.

Wirt stared at Greg for two seconds, his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Uh, come on," he sighed, "We've gotta start getting changed for this function Mom wants us to go to."

"You mean the party?" exclaimed Greg, excitedly.

"Uh, no Greg, it's...it's more like a...yeah, alright, whatever," shrugged Wirt, "Look, I'm gonna have a shower. Put something nice on."

"You mean..."

"No, Greg, not the lightning bolt shirt," replied Wirt, "The _nice_ shirt."

"Aw, but that shirt's uncomfy," muttered Greg.

"Yeah, but it's what Mom wants you to wear, so..." Wirt shrugged and headed to the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him and locked it. He heard a click as Greg turned the TV back on.

"_...here live with a witness. Mr. Ramirez?"_

_"__Yeah, dudes, Mr. Pines told me not to...I mean, I saw nothing, nothing at..."_

Wirt heard another click as Greg changed the channel to a cartoon. He nodded to himself, walked over to the sink and washed his face with cold water.

He couldn't quite escape the strange feeling that something was about to go wrong.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_...repairs at Boston Manor. There is a good service operating on all other London Underground lines._"

"Okay, Greg, stay close," said Wirt.

He and his brother were descending the stairs into one of the London Underground's many stations – Cannon Street, to be precise. Wirt was studying a map, trying to make sense of the extensive rail network. He had changed into a brown waistcoat over a pale tan shirt and black dress pants, a blue tie around his neck. Greg wore a white dress shirt and green pants over black dress shoes – he continuously fiddled with his collar.

"...okay, District Line to Embankment, change to Bakerloo to Waterloo...or is it the Circle Line?" Wirt asked out loud, "Ugh! This is confusing!"

"You know, Wirt?" blurted Greg, "I don't think Bakerloo is a real word."

"Yeah, uh, that too," nodded Wirt as they walked onto the platform. A train rolled in just as they arrived – it was old and grimy, and it was already packed. It was clearly rush hour.

The doors opened, and Wirt began to lead his brother into the train. Suddenly, he froze.

There, in the crowded interior of the train, he swore he could see a pair of eyes gazing out at him. A cold chill spread through his body.

Wirt cleared his throat.

"Actually, y-you know what, Greg?" he stammered, "We-we'll wait for the next one. It might be less crowded."

"Okay, Wirt," said Greg, "We can wait. I'll just sing the waiting song."

He began to hum the theme from Jeopardy as the train doors closed. The old train rattled out of the station, and the feeling of being watched slowly vanished. Wirt sighed and shook his head.

"You're losing your mind, Wirt," he told himself, "Just calm down..."

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><p>AN: My gosh...Bakerloo <em>isn't<em> a real word!


	3. Two: Into the Darkness

No guest reviews today, so let's get straight into it!

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><p><strong>Two: Into the Darkness<strong>

_The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky-seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness. _– _Joseph Conrad._

Wirt sat at a table, resting his cheek on his fist as he gazed at the clock in abject boredom. Around him, dozens of officer workers and corporate types mingled around discussing such exhilarating topics as spreadsheets and finance. A local politician was wandering about the conference room, flashing a toothy fake smile and reminding everyone to vote for him. Everything seemed immensely fake about it all, and Wirt couldn't wait to leave.

He glanced at his watch. 7pm. They still had a long time before they could leave.

He looked up as a well-dressed, elderly woman walked up to him. She didn't look at all amused.

"Young man," she demanded, crossing her arms, "Is that boy yours?"

She pointed to the corner of the room. Wirt groaned.

Greg was sitting on a bench next to a man in a green military dress uniform, talking animatedly and making a variety of gestures with his hands as he went along.

"...so then we went on this boat with these frogs, and I got a bit worried 'cause Jason Funderberker wasn't wearing any clothes," said Greg, "But it turned out..."

"Oh no," groaned Wirt, burying his head in his hands.

"That boy is far too old to be engaging in such fantasies in polite conversation," snapped the woman.

"I'll go talk to him," sighed Wirt.

"He'll never make it in business," sneered the woman, walking away.

He walked over to his brother, crossing his arms.

"...and then – oh, hey Wirt!" exclaimed Greg, "I was just about to tell Sergeant Wallis about Adelaide..."

"Quite an adventure ye seem to have had," nodded Wallis, smirking a little. His words were laced with a Glasgow accent.

"Uh-huh," nodded Wirt, "Look, I need to talk to Greg for a moment, I'm sorry to pull him away from you."

"It's alright, Wirt," nodded Greg, "I'll be back in a minute, Sarge."

He saluted as Wirt dragged him out into the empty hallway.

"Greg," demanded Wirt, "What're you doing? We talked about this!"

"But he believes us, Wirt!" replied Greg.

"No he doesn't, he just humouring you," said Wirt, running his hands through his hair.

"Well I didn't think he was very funny," nodded Greg, "He didn't even tell any good jokes or anything."

Wirt pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath.

"I wish I didn't have to deal with this," he grunted, "Look, Greg, just...just go back in there, stand in the corner and don't talk unless someone talks to you."

"Okay, Wirt," nodded Greg, "I'll just practice my Buckenhem Palace guard impression."

"...Greg, it's _Buckingham_."

Greg said nothing, twisting his face into an overly serious grimace as he marched back into the function.

Wirt shook his head and took a deep breath before turning to follow.

"I do actually believe ye, y'kno-"

"_AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!_" screamed Wirt, falling onto his back and edging away.

Sergeant Wallis had been standing right behind him.

"_Holy crud why would you do that?!_" demanded Wirt, "_How_ did you do that?"

"Royal Marine, son," replied Wallis, "If I can't get the drop on ye, I'm not doin' me job properly."

"...right," nodded Wirt, "Okay. Wait, you seriously believe what Greg told you?"

"There's somebody who wants to talk to ye, Wirt," replied Wallis, "Ye're gonna wanna listen to what he has to say."

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><p>Wirt gulped as Wallis led him up the stairs, past several men in camouflaged army uniforms with rifles. He had been led to the top story of the conference building, and was now heading for a office door at the end of the hall.<p>

"First of all, we are R.E.R.E.," said Wallis, "Royal Extraterrestrial Research Enclave."

"You mean like aliens?" quizzed Wirt.

"Government classifies all cryptozoological activity as extraterrestrial, lad," replied Wallis, "Because it's nae a part o' human civilisation, y'see."

He reached the door and knocked three times.

"Wallis?" a muffled voice asked.

"Major Richardson," replied Wallis.

The door opened. Another soldier in dress uniform – an officer this time – leaned out.

"You're late," he said.

"Took me a while to find the lad," replied Wallis.

Richardson nodded.

"Bring him in."

The two men led Wirt inside, past an empty reception desk and into a main office. A third officer, this one tall, somewhat aged and with an impressive regimental moustache, was standing inside, talking on the phone.

"...Captain Hohenbecker, _please_, I cannot possibly join an international manhunt for an innocent man," he snapped, "And on that note, I will not back any attempt to arrest Dipper Pines. He did nothing wrong, Hohenbecker."

There was a long pause.

"Yes, I _am_ insinuating you have a bias, it's pretty obvious," replied the officer, "Look, I have a visitor. I will call you back. Goodnight, Captain."

He hung up the phone and turned around, waving his hand towards a seat in front of the desk.

"Wirt, my good man," he nodded, "Take a seat, will you?"

"Uh...okay," replied Wirt, "Did...did you plan this function?"

"I had it moved to this building," replied the officer, "We need to talk."

"C-could we do this another day?" asked Wirt.

"No," replied the officer.

Wirt nervously sat down.

"My name is Colonel R. Atkinson," said the officer, "I know about the Unknown. I know about the Beast. I wish to know more about _you._"

Wirt's eyes widened.

"How-how do you know?" he exclaimed.

"I know a lot of things, Wirt," replied Atkinson, "Including about a concept called the Children of Destiny."

"Children of who?" asked Wirt.

"Children of Destiny," replied Atkinson, "They're the sort that attract the weird stuff, if you will. We're trying to gather them."

"And how many are there?" asked Wirt.

"There _were_ more than two hundred worldwide," replied Atkinson, grimacing, "But one of them pulled a little stunt that siphoned the power out of the vast majority into him."

"Wait, they have powers?" demanded Wirt, "Like...like Superman or something?"

"Much more subtle than that," replied Atkinson, "And much more selective. Anyway, with most of them depowered, plus Gleeful and McGucket gone, we're left to consider there to be about...maybe five to ten left. We know of two."

"So you think I might be..." began Wirt.

"Either you or Greg," replied Atkinson, "Perhaps both. Perhaps neither, but you may lead us to one."

He reached under his desk and pulled out a business card, sliding it over to Wirt.

"We'll be keeping an eye on you, Wirt," he said.

"You're gonna spy on me?" demanded Wirt.

"We'll protect you," replied Atkinson, "Dark things are coming. _Very_ dark things..."

Wirt raised his eyebrows and recoiled a little.

"...alright," he nodded, "I'll...keep that in mind. Can I go now?"

"Richardson, show him out," nodded Atkinson, "He'll see in time."

Wirt got up, desperate to escape the company of this madman. He practically ran out the door, the Major following close behind.

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><p>"I'll have to apologise for the Colonel, kid, he's very cryptic," said Richardson as they walked onto the main function floor, "I don't understand what's he's saying half the time and I'm supposed to be his right hand..."<p>

Wirt nodded, now determined that he was going to find his mother his Greg and go straight home.

"Hey, Wirt!"

An officer worker strode up to Wirt – Wirt recognised him as one of his mother's co-workers.

"You don't have to worry about Greg, kid," he said, "His dad picked him up and took him home."

Wirt tilted his head.

"But his dad's back in America," he replied, confused, "He can't have..."

He looked into the function room. Greg was being escorted out the other side by a man in a heavy trenchcoat and bowler hat.

"...wait, no, that's not my stepdad!" exclaimed Wirt, "_Greg!_"

He ran for the door, weaving through the function room and knocking several guests and at least one table over. He burst onto the street – it was dark and rain pelted down on him. He glanced down the street, just in time to see Greg and his companion step into an Underground stairway.

"Greg, get away from him!" called Wirt, racing after them.

He pelted down the stairs and into the underground hallways that led to the station concourse. He shot around the corner and nearly ran into a dead end.

"What?"

A map of the Underground was displayed before him – the lines had been twisted into reading 'GREG IS MINE.'

"No, nonono, this isn't happening, this is a dream," stammered Wirt, turning around. He saw a stairwell and nearly jumped down it in an attempt to catch up with his brother. He reached the bottom and turned another corner, only to find a nigh infinite tunnel stretching into darkness.

"Greg!" he called, "Where are you?"

The wind picked up from behind him. He turned around – a train pelted towards him. Wirt screamed and leapt out of the way, falling into another station corridor. There was a T-intersection before him. The sign on the left indicated 'WAY OUT' – so too did the one on the right.

Wirt ran through the left tunnel and up a set of stairs, emerging back into the rain. He looked around – he was across the road from the Houses of Parliament, standing on the northern side of Westminster Bridge. Panicking, Wirt ran onto the bridge, looking around for his brother.

"Greg? Greg, where are you?"

He stopped in the middle, out of breath. He leant against the side of the bridge, breathing erratically, and tried calling his brother one last time.

"_GREG!"_

Nobody replied.

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><p>AN: Oh no, not Greg!<p> 


	4. Three: Enter the Broker

Glad to see I have concerned you all. :P

Guest review replies;

**AnimePopCircle:** Quick, we must send out the Lost Greg Response Force! Thanks for reading.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Enter the Broker<strong>

_We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal. - Tennessee Williams_

Wirt leant on the support on the side of Westminster Bridge, trying to get his brain to function rationally. _Maybe he just went home_, he tried to tell himself, _Maybe he'll be back at the hotel and oh who am I kidding he's gone and I have no idea where he went what do I do what do I..._

Quite suddenly, Wirt felt someone shove past him. He turned around, watching a figure disappear into the darkness.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you mind?!"

He shook his fist in the figure's direction. He realised he could feel a slip of paper in his hand.

"Wait, what this?"

He opened his fist. There on his palm was a small slip of notepaper – clearly the stranger had forced it into his hand.

"If you want to find your brother," he read, "Find the Broker. Harrington Property, three miles north of Great Malvern."

He turned over the notepaper. A train ticket was taped to the other side – it read 'London Paddington to Great Malvern.'

"This is probably a trap," muttered Wirt, "Besides, I can't just leave everything to find Greg. I should leave this to..."

He looked up and out over the River Thames. He narrowed his eyes.

"No," he declared, "He's my responsibility, and I'm gonna get him back."

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><p>Wirt left London on the first train he could catch, which left Paddington just after dawn. It was a minor challenge finding it – he ended up having to catch the Hereford train, which stopped at Great Malvern on its way. As the train rumbled through the English countryside, Wirt tried to get as much sleep as he could – he knew that today was going to be a long day.<p>

It was noon by the time Wirt reached the gate at Harrington Property, deep in the Malvern Hills. It wasn't much – a couple of old sheds, a pile of woodcutting materials and a small, slightly ruined stone cottage that was weathered by moss and vines. There was nobody in sight, and a cold wind blew through the thick forest around.

Wirt gulped and glanced to a bell hanging by the gate.

"Well, here goes," he gulped.

He rang the bell and winced as it echoed through the cold air.

The cottage door opened. A grizzled man emerged into the open, clad in an old waistcoat and work pants that had seen better days. Narrowed eyes gazed at his visitor – he crossed his arms as he walked over to the gate.

"I've been expecting you, lad," he said in a thick Northern brogue.

"O-okay," gulped Wirt, "That...that's nice. A-are you the Broker?"

"The very same," nodded the Broker, "And I suppose you'd be 'ere about your brother. Come with me."

He unlocked the gate and began to walk back to the cottage. Wirt hesitantly followed, looking around as he did so.

"So, uh, n-nice place you got here," he said, "It's...err..._rustic_."

"Don't lie, boy, I know ye think it off-putting," snapped the Broker, "Supposed to be, ye know – keeps out unwanted guests. Plus, the woods keep people from slippin' away..."

He opened the door to his cottage. It was almost pitch dark inside.

"Shall we?" he invited.

Wirt bit down a gulp and slowly walked inside. The single room was rife with clutter, and was lit by a single candle. The Broker gently shut the door behind him, and Wirt became distinctly aware that he was essentially trapped.

"So," said the Broker, walking over to the lone cot in the corner and sitting down on it, "Ye want to find young Greg, does you?"

"Where is he?" asked Wirt.

The Broker glanced into the darkness on the other side of the cottage.

"You'll 'ave to ask me benefactor, now won't ye?" he replied.

A pair of white orbs suddenly flashed into visibility. Wirt nearly jumped out of his skin.

"**We meet again, child.**"

"The...the _Beast?!_" exclaimed Wirt, "But that's impossible!"

"**I think you'll find,**" replied the Beast, "**That I am not so easily dealt with.**"

"We 'ave Greg, boy," added the Broker, "You'll want to listen _very carefully_ if ye want to see 'im again."

"What have you done to him?" demanded Wirt, "If you've hurt him..."

"**He is quite safe, for now,**" said the Beast, "**If you want him to ****_remain_**** safe, you will run an errand for me.**"

"Or I could blow out your lantern again," snapped Wirt.

"Not so easy, kid," snapped the Broker, "Remember, 'e's got me on side. Tell me, 'ow do you intend to _escape_ after ye've done in the Beast?"

Wirt opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Exactly," nodded the Broker, "Ye'll listen, in which case your brother _may_ die, or ye'll fight, in which case 'e _and you_ will."

Wirt clenched his fists.

"What do you want, Beast?" he sighed.

"**Very good, boy,**" nodded the Beast, his tone condescending, "**If you want Greg returned, you will seek out the Eagle of the Ninth Legion.**"

"But...but nobody knows where that is!" protested Wirt, "It's _lost_. Heck, why do you even want it?!"

"That's for us to know and you to shut up and not ask questions," snapped the Broker, "As for being lost, there is an 'istorical society in York who believe they have a lead. You're gonna go and look into it. There's yer starting point."

Wirt shook his head.

"Why us?" demanded Wirt, "Why couldn't you go after any other brothers, huh? Is this petty revenge or something?"

"**You are special, boy,**" replied the Beast, "**Your world is changing, and you are one of those who will champion the greatest shift in human history.**"

"No pressure," grunted the Broker.

"What do you mean, _me?_" asked Wirt, "I mean, I'm _not_ special, I'm just some guy..."

"Ye're a Child o' Destiny, kid," said the Broker, "One of a small few. Only two others are known at the moment."

Wirt shook his head.

"And if I do this," he said, "You'll let Greg go?"

"**You have my word,**" replied the Beast.

"I don't trust your word," snapped Wirt.

"**But it is all you have,**" said the Beast.

"And if I say no?" asked Wirt.

There was a clicking sound from across the room.

"Don't mind me," said the Broker, "Just checkin' me gun."

Wirt wiped some sweat from his brow.

"O-okay," he nodded, "How do I get to York?"

"**The Broker will provide you with a train ticket**," replied the Beast, "**Once you leave, you will have one week to bring me the Eagle. We will wait for you outside the township of Inverness. Don't be late, child.**"

The Broker thrust an envelope into Wirt's hand.

"Directions," he snapped, "And ticket."

He got up and headed towards the door.

Wirt glanced back to where the Beast had been, only to find darkness. He shuddered and followed the Broker to the door. The bright light outside burned his eyes.

"Alright, lad," said the Broker, pushing Wirt out of the cottage, "You'll want the Yorkshire Society of Thor's 'ammer. They're based near York Minster."

"Okay, I'll be going," nodded Wirt, turning around.

The Broker grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him back.

"You get R.E.R.E. involved in any way," snarled the Broker, "Or any stripe o' copper, and I will not be 'eld responsible for what 'appens to you or your brother. Ye understand?"

"N-no R.E.R.E.," nodded Wirt, "Gotcha."

"Off you go then," said the Broker, turning around.

"Wait, what if-" began Wirt.

A slam told him that the Broker was gone.

Wirt took a deep breath, walking quickly out of the property and back onto the trail down to Great Malvern. He went over what had just happened in his head, desperately trying to come up with an exit strategy. None came to mind.

There was a rustle in the bushes behind him. Wirt turned around, seeing nothing but trees and bushes.

"Who's there?" he called.

Nobody replied. Wirt shook his head.

"Probably just a bird or something," he muttered, "C'mon, Wirt, let's get to York."

He walked away, never noticing the figure gazing out from around a tree behind him.

* * *

><p>AN: Curiouser and curiouser...<p> 


	5. Four: York

Finally! I am very sorry this took so long, school and writer's block kicked my arse.

Guest review replies;

**AnimePopCircle:** Not a problem. Thanks for reading!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: York<strong>

_The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. – Oscar Wilde._

Wirt sat on a bench on the platform at Sheffield railway station, rubbing his eyes. The shadows around him were growing long – night would soon fall. If all went well, he'd be in York by midnight, which meant he'd have to find somewhere to spend the night if he was going to be in any state to question any strange Vikings in the morning. He told himself that he'd cross that hurdle when it came, but he had to admit, he was scared.

Quite suddenly, he heard a strange ringing noise from his pocket. He quickly realised that it was his phone. He reached into his pocket and cautiously answered.

"...Wirt here," he gulped.

"_Major Richardson. What the heck's going on, Wirt?_"

"The guy from R.E.R.E.?" quizzed Wirt.

"_You've been out of London for nearly a day, mate, and yet your mother doesn't seem to realise anything's wrong,_" said Richardson, "_Last I saw you, you were running out the door shouting after your brother..._"

"Wait, mom hasn't noticed I'm gone?" asked Wirt.

"_It's odd, Wirt, she still thinks it's yesterday. Like she's under some kind of..."_

"Spell?" suggested Wirt.

"_I was going to say 'mental feedback loop', but that works too._"

Wirt nodded.

"Look, I-I can't tell you, okay," he sighed, "I'll be back in London in a week, alright, just stay out of this."

"_Are you dealing with the Broker?_" demanded Richardson, "_Because if you are, we can help you. I just need you to work with me. I can track your location and we'll..._"

Wirt realised with horror that R.E.R.E. would be able to track his phone. He felt the wind pick up and looked up the platform. A goods train was rumbling towards the station, diesel engine roaring through the night.

"I'm sorry," said Wirt, "But you can't help me."

He hurled his phone onto the railway line. With a sickening crunch, the train crushed the device and rolled onwards without a second thought.

Wirt watched the train fade into the darkness, his face grim.

"...well, that's five hundred bucks I'm never gonna see again."

* * *

><p>York was an old city – perhaps even ancient. Wirt walked along the cobbled streets in the early morning sun, gazing towards the massive shape of York Minster. Around him, a variety of old buildings selling unusual wares snaked around narrow, unplanned lanes. It was like nothing he'd ever seen.<p>

Before long, he found himself outside a tall, misshapen building on a road known as 'the Shambles' – a plaque on the door proclaimed it to be the Society of Thor's Hammer.

"Well, this looks like the place," muttered Wirt.

He swallowed and knocked on the door. He barely had time to withdraw his knuckle before it flew open, nearly sending him flying. A tall, wide, bearded man in a green three-piece suit, a frothy mug of what seemed to be mead in hand, burst onto the front step, extending his free hand.

"Welcome, my boy!" he proclaimed, a thick Yorkshire brogue in his words, "Welcome to the Society of Thor's Hammer!"

"Uh...hi," nodded Wirt, somewhat freaked out, "I'm here because..."

"Because the Odinfather brought you here!" exclaimed the man, "Come inside, and we shall converse as we merrily consume mugs of honey mead!"

"...I'm seventeen, sir," said Wirt as the big man pulled him inside.

"'Tis alright, my boy!" boomed the man, "We have a non-alcoholic variant of mead for you – or as you Saxons might call it, Pepsi!"

He pulled Wirt into a small room that consisted of two old armchairs, a coffee table, a roaring fire and a large bookshelf. The man fell into one of the chairs, motioning for Wirt to take the other one.

"It's a real pleasure to have a visitor, my boy!" said the man, "I am the one called Shane, director, head priest and member number one of the Yorkshire Society of Thor's Hammer!"

"Where are all the other members?" asked Wirt.

"...I'm working on that," admitted Shane, "So, what brings you to our fair city of Jorvik?"

"I'm looking for something," replied Wirt, "It's...ah...it's an ancient artefact, and somebody told me you have a way to find it..."

"I might well do," nodded Shane, "What is it?"

"It's the...ah...the Eagle of the Ninth Legion," said Wirt.

Shane raised his eyebrows and leaned in, taking in his guest. His eyes widened.

"Uh, Shane, that's kind of uncomfortable..."

"By Odin's Beard," whispered Shane, "You're...you're _the Wirt!_"

"...how do you know my name?" asked Wirt.

"Your name is carved into the hilt of the Eagle," replied Shane, "It is your destiny to wield it, and take up the fight against the Great Demon."

"You mean the Beast, right?" gulped Wirt.

"No," replied Shane, "Must worse than that. They say he was banished, but he will shortly return, and you will take your place in the fight against him."

He looked into the fire.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more..." he recited.

"...or clog up the walls with our English dead," finished Wirt, "Shakespeare, _Henry V_."

"Smart lad," nodded Shane.

He looked back to Wirt.

"There's a whole bunch of societies like us, you know," he said, "Scattered across the world – the Holy Mackerels, the Swollen Eyeball – all waiting for you and your ilk. Dark times are approaching, lad, and we've got to be ready for them."

There was a long silence. Then Shane grinned and sat back.

"So," he said, "The Eagle! I don't know where it is, but I can put you on the trail. Y'see, the Eagle was held for a while by a fellow name Caruthers Rochford. He had it hidden before the Jacobites burnt down his town and hung him from a tree, but scuttlebutt says there might be a clue in the old cathedral. So if I were you, I'd head up to the remains of Alton and have a look around."

"Where's that?" asked Wirt.

"Northumberland," replied Shane, "Just along Hadrian's Wall. Get out to Bardon Mill and head about seven miles west, you can't miss it."

"How am I supposed to 'get out' there?" demanded Wirt.

Shane reached into his pockets and pulled out two fifty pound notes.

"Fifty pounds for the survival of civilisation," he shrugged, "I can afford it."

"So I've gotta travel again," sighed Wirt, "What am I, a hobbit?"

"Well, you sound like one," noted Shane.

Wirt rolled his eyes and got to his feet.

"Well, thanks for your help, I guess," he said.

"Not a problem, my boy!" replied Shane, "May the mighty hand of Thor guide you wherever you travel!"

"You really worship Odin?" asked Wirt as they walked over to the door.

"Course I do," nodded Shane, "Somebody has to!"

He opened the front door for him and looked out onto the street. He furrowed his brow.

"Is trenchcoat out there yours?" he asked, "Because I saw them when you came in."

Wirt gazed out onto the street. A person in a thick brown trenchcoat and hat – he could not tell if it was a man or a woman – watched him from the other side.

Wirt thought back. He remembered the feeling of being watched at Cannon Street Station, and the rustling of bushes near Great Malvern.

"I'm being followed," he realised, "Hey you! Stop following me!"

Trenchcoat immediately made a run for it, heading due east. Quickly, Wirt sprinted after them but immediately ran into a mass of people going the other way. By the time he emerged, the figure was gone.

"Damn it," cursed Wirt, "Who was that?"

He felt a sheet of paper blow against his leg. Raising an eyebrow, he leant over and picked it up. It was a short note addressed to him.

_Wirt,_

_If you want the truth, go to the railway museum. You'll know it when you see it._

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><p>The National Railway Museum was one of the largest of its kind in the world, which did not at all help Wirt in 'seeing it'. He wandered the Great Hall – a massive roundhouse painted in blues and greys, centred on a large turntable, with sunlight streaming through large windows.<p>

After half an hour of searching fruitlessly for a clue, Wirt stopped by a locomotive – a large red one which resembled an upturned bathtub – and gathered his thoughts.

"What did they mean 'I'd know it when I see it?'" he asked himself, "Why is everything so cryptic around here?"

He sighed.

"I'm wasting time," he declared, "I should be finding Greg and instead I'm standing here looking at _trains!_ How is this thing helping me?!"

He motioned testily to the engine next to the red one. This one was sleek, blue and streamlined, the letters "LNER' marked on the tender. At the front of the engine, just under the funnel, there was a nameplate.

_Mallard_.

"Look, they can't even think of good names for these," sniffed Wirt, "So they name 'em after..."

His eyes widened.

"...after _birds_."

He looked up at the nameplate, realisation striking him.

"This thing's called _Mallard_," he said, "And a mallard is a kind of a duck, which is a bird...and it's painted blue. That means...it's a _blue bird._ Which must mean..."

He felt a gaze on the back of his head. He turned around – Trenchcoat was there, their hat obscuring their face.

"I know who you are," said Wirt.

"It's been a while, huh Wirt?" replied Trenchcoat, her voice distinctly feminine.

"I guess it has, _bluebird_," nodded Wirt, a slight grin tugging at his features.

Trenchcoat took off her hat, revealing a red haired young woman, hair tied in a bun. She returned the smile.

"Took you long enough, dunce," said Beatrice.

* * *

><p>AN: Let's face it, everybody saw this coming.<p> 


End file.
